


Magic in the Air

by otterlyardent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:10:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otterlyardent/pseuds/otterlyardent
Summary: On his twentieth birthday, Draco has the first of many dreams, meant to lead him to his soulmate. The other problem, however, is that he's quite certain his dreams revolve around two women. Add in a request from Hermione Granger to assist her with a case, and Draco finds himself in a right mess. Canon divergent. Soulmate AU.





	Magic in the Air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLastLynx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastLynx/gifts).



  


_A slender, toned arm — perfectly porcelain and carefully dotted with freckles — moved through the air in a fluid motion._

_Bass thump, thump, thumped — much like a thundering heartbeat._

_A flat stomach rolled sinuously with devious intent. A bead of perspiration slowly slid down a slender neck and into awaiting ample cleavage._

Draco Malfoy startled awake, clammy with sweat and uncomfortably aroused. He blamed the — admittedly — pleasant dream on too much firewhisky at his party and not enough sustenance. He would only turn twenty once — he meant to celebrate it well. Especially when, once upon a time, Draco couldn’t imagine surviving more than one moment to the next. Now? Well, it certainly had been no picnic, but he thought he might see light forming at the end of the metaphorical tunnel. 

The blond Malfoy heir drunkenly rolled to his stomach, groaning as the world spun momentarily from the movement, and promptly fell back to sleep — forgetting all about the dream in the process. 

x~X~x

_Scratch, scratch, scratch went her quill across the parchment. The flowing cursive bleeding into the fibres, staining them — and the owner of said quill’s fingertips — the colour of the midnight sky. Each delicate, swirling loop was enchanting and the writer’s passion would undoubtedly leap from the page to smack her intended reader upside their head, it was so readily apparent._

_Next came the whisper of pages turning. A thick tome balanced precariously on a pair of naked knees and a steaming cuppa cradled by two rather tiny hands. So small, in fact, a foreign surge of protectiveness seemed to colour the edges of the dream — along with the strangest urge to wrap his much larger ones around them and quite possibly never let go. Draco watched page after page being turned, picking up on the faintest hints of her emotions — an effervescent burst of humour, a sobering sense of foreboding, warmth like that of a million suns — his favourite part of these dreams would forever be the secret and sacred glimpse of this mystery woman’s emotions._

_Though not very exciting, he was happy to dream of such mundane things, instead of the nightmares that used to plague him on a near nightly basis. His mystery girl, whoever she was, wrapped his subconscious up in a blanket of peace that soothed the jagged and sharp edges of his soul._

The loud buzzing of Draco’s wand from his nightstand made the dream disappear in a whisper of smoke and the wizard groaned aloud, reaching blindly for the offensive piece of wood with a pout. Another night, another dream — just like every other evening over the course of the last three months. The first several dreams had been easy to dismiss; he was a young wizard with a healthy libido and dreaming of women wouldn’t raise any real alarm for him. Why would it? 

After a while, however, the wizard realized he had no control in any of these dreams — in fact, he wasn’t even in them. He seemed to be seeing things from the dream girl’s perspective at all times and shared in what had to be the most random collection of moments he’d ever experienced. It was then that he recalled a conversation he’d had with his parents when he was a child about soulmates. And suddenly everything was different.

Soulmates were rare, they had told him. Extremely so — only a few truly soul-bonded pairs every generation, if that. But, if he happened to be one of those fortuitous enough to be blessed with a soulmate, he would begin having dreams after his twentieth birthday. They couldn’t tell him then what kind of dreams, because those who were soul-bonded were notoriously tight-lipped about their experiences.

Even as a child, one accustomed to getting everything he desired — including answers where none existed — Draco understood. A bond like that, he decided, must be pretty sacred and he liked to believe he’d want to protect it at all costs. And he’d been all of five years old at the time. 

Presently, the wizard was still coming to terms with the fact that he was one of the select few, though he couldn’t help but feel excitement flare to life low in his belly each time he was reminded that somewhere out there waited the other half of his whole. Perfect for him, in every sense of the word. Soul-bonds were things of great reverence in the wizarding world, and Draco sometimes felt like his magic was pulsing within his veins, eager to break free from him and scour the globe to find her.

There was only one problem. 

He was certain he was dreaming of two separate women. 

With another audible groan, Draco rose to greet the day — though his mind was busy cataloguing yet another dream and noting all the differences between their subjects. As he showered, he couldn’t help but imagine his dancer — her sinful curves and graceful movements. And several minutes later, as his forehead rested against the cold marble and his seed washed down the drain, he felt the smallest measure of guilt. 

He was convinced that his dancer was Muggle. 

He never recognized any of the places she visited in his dreams and often performed some styles of dance that would leave him relatively speechless for days. 

The bookish one, on the other hand, was definitely a witch. Not only had Draco observed her using magic more than once in the dreams, but oftentimes she would be reading wizarding texts, as well. 

It was comforting to know that, though there might be two perfect matches for him out in the world, at least one of them was magical, even if she was the less exciting option of the two. 

With his towel slung low on his hips, Draco ran a hand through his damp platinum locks, pushing them back and away from his forehead before appraising himself in the mirror. The barest hint of stubble covered his jaw, something he thought made him look older, wiser, perhaps even a bit rakish. With a perfunctory nod, the wizard unstoppered the expensive French cologne his mother always brought home for him after one of her shopping trips and splashed a small amount on his hands before gently patting his neck at his pulse points. 

Grinning at his reflection, he wandlessly cast a cleaning and refreshing charm, leaving his breath minty fresh and his perfectly straight teeth practically sparkling. He then sauntered back into his bedroom, dropping his towel when he reached his dresser, and pulling on a pair of black boxer-briefs. After grabbing a pair of matching dress socks, the lithe man snagged his wand from the nightstand and pointed it at his closet. Moments later a light grey, three-piece suit settled on the foot of the bed.

The dreams had been enough of a distraction to keep the former Slytherin’s nerves at bay. As Draco dressed, however, he couldn’t help but notice the way his stomach seemed to drop whenever he checked the time. When he’d received the letter requesting his assistance, he didn’t think much of it. He’d been called in a time or two before, and his skills _were_ rather impressive — if he did say so himself. The shock came at the very end of the missive. 

_Sincerely, Ms. Hermione J. Granger_

Of course, the Daily Prophet kept everyone up-to-date on the goings-on in Granger’s life, so he knew she’d secured a job at one of the most prestigious law firms in all of wizarding Britain — he just never expected her to come to him for help. The Granger he remembered would rather eat a bucket of flobberworms than ask her greatest tormentor for assistance. As he often had to remind himself, however, the war was over and petty childhood squabbles meant very little in the harsh light of adulthood. 

And, truth be told, it only seemed _fitting_ that Granger would be more mature and forgiving than the rest of Britain's wizarding populace.

Once fully dressed, Draco plucked the heavy platinum timepiece his mother had given him for his birthday from his nightstand and clasped it around his wrist. Cufflinks came next, gleaming Malfoy crests that winked up at him when they caught the light. He hadn’t seen Granger, _face to face_ , in a few years — and Draco felt it was important to make a good impression upon their reacquaintance. 

Even Merlin knew he’d mucked it all up, the first time around. 

Securing the perfect Windsor knot at the base of his throat, the wizard smoothed a hand over the deep charcoal tie with ice-blue stripes his mother swore brought out the slight ring of blue around his irises until it laid perfectly. Draco gave himself one last once-over in the mirror, after sliding into his fine, Italian leather shoes, and hummed softly in approval. He looked every inch the respectable businessman and could breathe just a bit easier.

He left his bedroom, ambling towards the kitchen on the other end of his flat with a sigh. There was only time for a strong cup of tea and a couple of slices of toast, but even that might have been a blessing in disguise. As loathe as he was to admit it, his stomach felt rather weak with nerves and anything heavier might have sent him screaming for the loo. It wasn’t that _Granger_ made him nervous, it was more everything the pair had been through from the time they were eleven. 

And, after he had made quick work of his breakfast, the wizard stood before his Floo with a handful of green powder, calling out the address of her law firm with only the slightest tremble in his voice betraying him.

x~X~x

Draco bore the brunt of many hostile stares after giving his name to the receptionist, who eyed him with mistrust and a curled lip before rolling her eyes and telling him she’d have to make sure _Hermione_ wanted to see him. _Typical Granger,_ he thought, _everyone’s bloody friend._ As if he’d dream of bothering her otherwise, he didn’t have a death wish. It took all of his strength not to scowl and snap at everyone else, their judgemental glares only serving to rattle him further. 

“Malfoy,” he heard her sigh, and Draco turned towards the voice he hadn’t heard in years. Granger stood a few feet away, dressed sharply in an all-black ensemble that was at once professional and, _Salazar forgive him_ , sexy. Swallowing around his suddenly dry throat, the wizard raised his chin in silent greeting after finding himself a little lost for words. A slow smirk formed at the corner of her lips, eerily reminiscent of his own, and the witch held out her hand, “Thank you for coming in. I know your talents are in high demand these days, and I really appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule.” 

Taking a step forward, Draco wrapped his much larger hand around hers and grit his teeth when his skin erupted in gooseflesh. _The hell?_

“It’s no trouble at all, Granger,” he replied smoothly — even if there was more gravel in his voice than normal.

  
  
“All the same,” she murmured and the smirk melted into a warm, familiar smile — one he’d seen her flash at her friends on a regular basis back at Hogwarts. “Follow me?” 

She beckoned as she dropped his hand, and at his nod, turned to lead them down a long hall towards her corner office. He followed a pace behind and fought valiantly against the urge to stare at her — _admittedly fantastic_ — arse the whole way. Instead, he focused on the way her smooth and defined curls bounced with each step she took — it was hard to believe it was the same hair he used to endlessly tease her for.  
  
“Normally,” Granger began, as she ushered them into her private office and closed the door behind them, “I’d do the majority of the spellwork on items like the one I need your assistance with but there are so many layers of magic at work here, both protective and _dark,_ I know I am out of my league.” The pretty brunette witch motioned for him to take the seat opposite her desk before sliding into her own. “My first thought was Bill Weasley. You worked with him at Gringotts for a bit, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yes, he’s an excellent teacher,” Draco acknowledged and swallowed the bitter realization that he wasn’t her first choice without complaint.  
  
“I’ll tell him you said so,” she warned with a teasing grin. “But as Fleur is expected to deliver at any given moment now, and since he had nothing but praise for how talented you are in your field, I decided to reach out to you instead. I’ve been given a task to ‘prove myself worthy of my position’ and I’m afraid it’s a rather tough nut to crack.”  
  
“Pardon me, did you just say they’re forcing you to prove _yourself_ ? You’re Hermione Bloody Granger, I’m fairly certain you’ve proved yourself ten times over by now!” Even he was surprised by how offended he felt on her behalf.  
  
“While that might be true,” she chuckled a bit breathlessly, “I am fresh out of school and haven’t been tested in this arena yet. Plus, the board is made up of old, dusty wizards that I have very little doubt would love to put me in my ‘proper place’.” 

“Consider me at your full disposal than, Miss Granger,” Draco drawled, a conspiratorial smirk playing about the corner of his lips.  
  
“They’ll never know what hit them,” She laughed, sharing his mischievous expression. 

x~X~x

Sometime later, after going over the ins and outs of the artefact and how important it was to her case that all the enchantments be removed, the witch leaned forward on her elbows, eyeing him with more than a cursory glance. 

“What?” Draco shot back, a little defensively. 

“Did it bother you, this morning? The way they were all looking at you?” Her eyes were sympathetic, and her full lips were turned down into a worried frown.  


“I’m fairly used to it by now, Granger. No need to worry yourself over it,” the wizard assured. The fact that she cared at all softened the blow to his fragile ego quite a bit, not that he’d ever tell her that.  


“Be that as it may, what if we were to work on this elsewhere? Somewhere you wouldn’t have to face a slew of judgemental twats every day?” She pressed, worrying her bee-stung bottom lip with her pearly-white teeth. Shaking his head to clear away his momentary distraction, Draco cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair.  


“Like where?”  


“My flat. I work from home quite often and already have a space set up for you to work safely, in my home office. I promise you it’s no trouble and I’d feel better since I’m the one asking a favour of you, if I could offer you a non-hostile place to work.” After several beats of silence, in which Draco could only blink slowly in response, she spoke in a rush, “Of course if you’re not comfortable with that option, I could always ask Kingsley, _er,_ Minister Shacklebolt if we could use one of the Ministry’s—”  


“Granger, Granger, slow down,” the wizard cut her off with a laugh. “I was just shocked by the offer, that’s all. I’d hate to put you out in any way, and really, I am used to the looks. You don’t have to offer me refuge.”

“It would make me feel better, Draco. Please?” His spine straightened at her use of his given name, and he could only nod his acceptance. “Thank you,” she breathed with a smile and quickly wrote down her address on a piece of stationary, sliding it across the desk towards him. “I’ll open my Floo when I get home this evening and expect you at nine tomorrow morning? That work for you?”  


Draco took the paper, biting the inside of his cheek as their fingers brushed, and nodded. “Nine o’clock, sharp.” 

“Do you like pancakes?” She grinned and stood, readying herself to walk him back to the office’s Floo. “I could make breakfast. Most important meal of the day, you know?” 

Following suit, he stood and shook his head with an astounded expression, “Well, what do you think? I love pancakes!”

x~X~x

At exactly nine, Hermione’s Floo lit up with bright, emerald flames and Draco stepped out — dressed much more casually than he had been the day before — into her spacious living room. It was tidy but lived-in and had a stack of books resting in the corners of every available surface. 

“Granger?” He called out, looking around for her unmistakable curls.  


“Draco!” She exclaimed, stepping into the room wearing a frilly apron. He had to purse his lips to keep from smiling a mile wide at the sight. “Good morning. I’m just putting the finishing touches on breakfast and must’ve missed the sound of the Floo. Come in.” Her smile was bright and cheerful and he found himself following her dumbly, struck silent at the sight of it. 

“Tea?” She asked, pointing to his seat at her small kitchen table. At his nod, she spun and pulled a mug down from her cupboard, adding a teabag and water from the still steaming kettle before placing it in front of him.  


“You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble, Granger,” Draco murmured, adding milk and sugar to his liking.  


“It’s no trouble at all. In fact, it gives me a reason to eat a full breakfast myself, I’m usually too busy and end up with toast.” Her voice was kind as she slid a small stack of fluffy pancakes and a rasher of bacon in front of him. A few moments later, without the adorable apron, she took a seat across from him with her own plate and held out a bottle to him. “Syrup?”  


x~X~x

“It looks familiar,” Draco murmured, eyeing the sinister-looking necklace closely. “I can’t place it, and can’t tell you why, but I swear I’ve seen this piece before.” 

Granger stood to his left with her arms crossed over her chest and shot him a worried grimace.  
  
“It’s not a Malfoy family heirloom, Granger, no need to worry your pretty little head,” he chuckled. “But I have _seen_ it before, I’m positive.”  
  
“I wasn’t worried,” the witch muttered under her breath making him laugh harder.  
  
“Of course not, how silly of me. Regardless, you were right, it’s got at least thirty layers of enchantments that will have to be removed. It might take me a while to get through all of them.” His silver eyes flashed with an apology as he glanced her way. “I hope that’s alright?”  
  
“I expected as much,” Granger sighed, narrowing her eyes at the ghastly necklace. 

x~X~x

Days passed. A week. Then two.

  
  
Every weekday, Draco stepped through Granger’s Floo at precisely nine, joining her for a delightful breakfast before the pair would get to work. And work they would, tirelessly, to unlock whatever secrets the necklace — and the over-abundance of magic placed upon it — were trying to hide. And as they worked, they would talk and slowly but surely, the pair had formed a close-friendship neither had ever expected. 

He learned that while being Minister of Magic was still her ultimate goal, she’d decided a full and complete understanding of wizarding law would be more beneficial than taking an entry-level position at the Ministry and slowly working her way up the proverbial ladder. So she had instead enrolled in an accelerated law program. In return, Draco had shared that — while he was never expected to work for a living — after the events of the war he wanted to help remove the taint of dark magic still left in their world, to prove himself to be a productive member of wizarding society. 

Nightly, he was plagued by his dream women and brief glimpses into their lives and emotional states — _a trip to Diagon Alley, a crowded, dance floor and too many sweaty bodies moving to heavy, bass-filled music, a rainy evening spent curled up in a window seat with a good book_. But then he would wake with thoughts of Granger and her easy smiles and alluring blush at the forefront of his mind. Stress weighed heavily upon him because, even though he knew his fate was intrinsically tied to another, the wizard found himself endlessly attracted to the witch he once believed to be beneath him in every way. 

It became harder with each passing day to say goodbye and return to his empty flat alone, and he often found himself working slower than necessary, just to spend a few more moments in Granger’s presence. Utterly confused and exhausted, he was oddly comforted when he arrived home Friday evening, over two weeks after their initial meeting, knowing he would have two full days to clear his mind before seeing the witch again. He made himself a quick dinner before retiring to his bed with a tumbler of firewhisky and a book, resolutely pushing thoughts of Granger from his mind. 

In nearly no time at all, the book laid against Draco’s chest and soft snores filled his room.

_Music, much more delicate and quiet than that of which he’d grown accustomed, was the first thing he became aware of. She stood in front of a wall of mirrors, but try as he might, Draco couldn’t make out her face. Instead, he watched as she threw herself into the music, dancing with as much grace and effortlessness as a prima ballerina. Still, there was something familiar about the lines of her curves, and the gentle slope of her neck. Her hair was dark, almost mahogany in colour._

_With a painful clench of his heart, Draco realized he knew her. He couldn’t pretend to know how, but there was a familiarity there that hadn’t been before._

_The dream changed, and now his dancer was carefully sipping on a cuppa — gazing up at the night sky from a picturesque window seat he felt intimately acquainted with, though he’d never laid eyes on it in the waking world._

_Draco felt his heart race as the realization dawned on him. Whoever she was — the bookish girl and his dancer, were not two different people._

_They were one and the same._

_Once more, the scene shifted and the dream changed. He found himself staring out over the immaculate gardens at the Manor and could only blink in confusion._

_“You were right,” an all-too-familiar voice sighed from his left. “It’s beautiful and the perfect place for a wedding.”_

_With a sharp turn of his head, Draco found himself gazing into a pair of dark, knowing eyes with flecks of amber and gold._

He sat upright with a gasp and was surprised to find himself trembling. He knew those eyes. He’d spent hours studying every minute detail of them. His heart slammed repeatedly against his ribcage, its pace frantic. 

Draco staggered from the bed to his closet and threw on the first thing he came across, black trousers and cashmere pullover. The wizard raced towards the Floo, only to pause when he began to call out her address, changing it to the Manor instead. Off-kilter as he was, he stumbled out of the fireplace and into the travelling room, nearly losing his footing entirely — something he hadn’t done since he was a child first getting used to the method of travel. 

Navigating the halls with the practised ease of someone who’d lived there all his life, Draco burst into the formal dining room, looking harried and breathless. Both Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy stood, abandoning their breakfasts at their son’s arrival, and stared in wide-eyed shock.  
  
“Draco!” His mother gasped, placing a hand on her chest. “Is everything alright, darling?” 

“It’s Granger,” he rasped, dropping into the vacant chair that used to be his own. 

“I beg your pardon,” Lucius drawled in his normal austere tone, taking his seat once more when it became clear that his son was in no immediate danger. “What’s Granger?”  
  
“The dreams,” Draco moaned, burying his face in his hands.  
  
“What dreams?” His ever astute mother demanded.

“They started after my birthday,” he whispered miserably. “I didn’t even realize at first, I just thought they were typical dreams, maybe my subconscious trying to tell me some witch had caught my eye. But then I realized they were different, deeper somehow than normal dreams. And I remembered what you told me, about soulmates.”

“No,” Lucius cut in sharply. “Absolutely not. You’re mistaken.”  
  
“Oh, my dragon…” Narcissa whispered, her wide blue eyes welling with tears. “You have a soulmate?”  
  
“I’ve been working with her on a case. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to work it out,” Draco finally lifted his head and returned his mother’s affectionate gaze. “But it’s her. It’s Granger.”  
  
“That’s impossible!” His father snarled, drawing both his and his mother’s attention. Slamming a hand down on the gleaming, wooden surface of the table, Lucius shook his head. “There’s no chance a filthy _Mudblood_ is your soulmate, Draco. They’re not worthy of the honour. Be reasonable,” he scoffed. “You’ve simply been spending too much time with her. In fact, I’ll set up a date with the youngest Greengrass girl to get your mind off her and this _ridiculous_ notion.”  
  
“Don’t call her that,” the Malfoy heir spat through clenched teeth, balling his hands into tight fists. “And if anyone in this equation isn’t worthy, I can assure you, it’s me.”  
  
Narcissa watched silently as her son and husband stared one another down, battling her own tempest of conflicting emotions. When she saw Lucius’ hand twitch towards his wand, however, she cleared her throat. What was that phrase again? The only way... 

“Miss Granger’s birthday is mid-September, you are aware?” Her demure, yet steely voice cut across the table, drawing both men’s attention. “September 19th, if I’m not mistaken. It’s practically a national holiday these days and the Prophet always runs an in-depth story marking the occasion. You can stop looking at me as if I’ve grown another head, darling,” she smirked at her fuming husband. “I do have a point. Draco was born in June, roughly two weeks early, isn’t that right?”  
  
“Yes,” Lucius sighed with a roll of his eyes. “Though I don’t know why that’s pertinent information.”  
  
Draco couldn’t quite follow his mother’s train of thought either and chose to pour himself a cup of tea, to settle his nerves. 

“If he hadn’t been early, our son would have arrived _exactly_ nine months after Miss Granger was born,” Narcissa explained slowly, smirking all the while at her husband. “Isn’t that interesting, my love?” 

Teacup frozen midway to his lips, Draco stared blankly in his mother’s direction while his mind processed just what that meant. 

“Cissa… you-you _can’t… please,”_ Lucius stammered, “be reasonable.”

  
  
“I am being reasonable, love,” she cooed in response. “We always knew Draco was destined for great, wondrous things, Lucius. We just didn’t recognize how rare and awe-inspiring those things would be. For once in your life, put your blasted prejudice aside and look at the broader scope at hand. Our son has a soulmate, a perfect match for him in every possible way. Someone who will love him, every part of him, with all her heart for the rest of her days. That alone is remarkable and my every wish come true.” Her voice broke, and the Malfoy matriarch took a moment to collect herself before continuing.

“And she happens to be a powerful, massively intelligent witch — one that bested our son every year, much to your chagrin. You and I both know Hermione Granger is the reason Harry Potter survived the war, and we were set free from that madman’s iron grip.” Narcissa’s cerulean eyes begged her husband to understand, to listen. “And even though we stood by and watched as she was tortured in our own home, and our son did everything in his power to make her life miserable while they were in school together, she chose to stand up for him. Her testimony, along with Potter’s, is most assuredly the reason he’s not rotting in a cell in Azkaban. She’s the only one who fought tirelessly to ascertain each and every Death Eater received a fair trial. So _Mudblood_ —” she glared at Lucius “—Muggle-born or not, she’s every inch as remarkable as our son and I couldn’t imagine a more powerful match. You might not want to believe it, Lucius, but I _know_ you can see it.”  
  
“I didn’t—” their son’s whisper broke the couple’s heated stare “—do _everything_ in my power to make her miserable. I was a right arse, of course, as was expected of me. But there were times, second year for instance when I felt compelled to go out of my way and help her. As more and more Muggle-borns wound up Petrified in the hospital wing, I left a ripped page about Basilisks on top of one of her essays when she went in search of a book in the library. I had hoped to help her avoid suffering the same fate, but the very next day word got around that she had fallen victim as well. I was crushed.”  
  
“Oh, Draco,” his mother sighed mournfully. “My poor, sweet boy.”  
  
“And in sixth year, even though Potter knew from the start that I’d taken the Mark and was up to no good,” Draco shakily explained, “she still cornered me one evening at the end of rounds, and told me in the most explicit of terms that she didn’t know what had happened — or what was keeping me from eating and sleeping — but she couldn’t stand idly by and do nothing as I wasted away. Then she shoved a bag into my hands. I can still remember the sound of the vials clinking together. She asked me to please take better care of myself before turning on her heel and all but running back to Gryffindor Tower. Inside there had been over two month’s worth of Dreamless Sleep and Pepper-Up potions. She’s the reason Potter and Weasley turned back in the Room of Hidden Things when Crabbe’s Fiendfyre went awry and would have killed me and Goyle, right in the middle of the final battle. The way she screamed? _We can’t just leave them! Please? Please, turn around!_ I still can’t believe I could hear her over the roar of the flames. _”_

“Did you recognize her? That day the Snatchers brought them in?” Lucius questioned quietly, his gaze serious and intent. 

“Yes,” the Maloy heir readily admitted. “Potter was badly disfigured, probably a Stinging Hex from Granger, but there was no doubt in my mind. She had obviously been caught before she could alter Weasley’s appearance... or her own...” His voice trailed off to nothing. 

“Yet you chose not to immediately identify them, _her_ .” Lucius pressed. “ _Why?”_

  
“At the time?” Draco wondered aloud. At his father’s nod of encouragement, he continued. “I knew Potter was our best chance to be rid of Voldemort. I was so tired, and spent every waking moment hating myself, hating you for teaching me. I spent years believing the Dark Lord would be the saviour of the wizarding world, and he was nothing more than a sociopath using a rich, secluded part of our civilization’s prejudice against them — effectively turning them into his puppets on his quest for world domination. He didn’t give one whit about us or our concerns. We were nothing more than a means to an end to him.”  
  
Finally, taking a long pull of his all-but-forgotten and cooling tea, the younger wizard continued, “But looking back on it, I was horrified to see her there, undisguised and vulnerable. It took every ounce of strength I had to keep from being sick as Bellatrix tortured her. If I close my eyes, I can still hear her screaming. I have recurring nightmares of that night, or at least, I did — until the dreams began.” 

“So there’s always been a connection between the two of you,” Lucius stated, rather than asking for clarification. At his son’s slow nod, the Malfoy patriarch sighed deeply. 

“Seeing as she is, in fact, nine months older than you,” his father murmured defeatedly, “we can only assume she’s experienced the dreams as well. Being who she is, and a _Mud—_ Muggle-born, no less, I can only imagine she did a fair amount of research and has deduced you are her soulmate. You said you were working on a case together?”

Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, Draco could only nod in response.

“May I ask what she needed your assistance with?” Narcissa questioned gently, reaching out to cover her son’s free hand with her own, offering whatever comfort and strength she could.  
  
“Her bosses all but ordered her to prove herself by solving a cold-case. One of the only pieces of evidence is in the form of a cursed artefact, a ridiculously ostentatious necklace — one I swear I’ve seen before, I just can’t remember where. The spellwork on it is _bloody_ complicated and there’s layer after layer of it. Normally she’d do the work herself, but knew she was in over her head. So she owled me.”  
  
“You recognize this necklace?” Lucius repeated slowly, eyes turning distant and speculative. 

“I’ve seen it before, and no, not from our vaults or anything of the like,” Draco returned with a sigh, draining his cup. 

“Would you be willing to pull a memory for the Pensieve? Perhaps your mother and I could be of assistance,” his father offered, eyes shining with sincerity while Narcissa nodded eagerly. Warmth spread throughout Draco’s chest, and he couldn’t contain the wide smile that split his lips if he tried. 

x~X~x

Hermione had been curled up in her favourite spot — the window seat in her bedroom, reading — when her Floo roared to life. The loud, unexpected noise startled her so badly, she dropped the first edition _Hogwarts: A History_ she’d been poring over with a small shriek.

“Hermione!” The sound of Draco’s frantic, panicked voice had the witch on her feet and rushing out of her bedroom in an instant. She’d only made it a few feet from her bedroom door when his platinum blond hair peeked around the corner and his wide, pewter eyes fell on her form. Freezing in place as he stepped fully into the hall, Hermione quickly scanned his muscular form for injury and, upon finding none, all but shrieked, “Is everything alright? Are you hurt or in danger?” She blinked once, twice before, “You called me Hermione.”  
  
Draco’s eyes drifted past her and through the door she’d left wide open in her haste, and the witch watched his Adam’s apple jerk forcibly as he swallowed, recognizing the now familiar place featured in so many of his dreams. She was still dressed in the tight outfit he’d seen in his dream the night before, and his eyes snapped back to hers with a start when he came to the conclusion that he’d been dreaming of future events.  
  
“I must look a fright,” she murmured with a blush, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “I wasn’t expecting any company and have been lounging about since first thing this morning. Draco, it’s so unlike you to come by unannounced, please set my mind at ease and tell me if everything is okay? Are you alright?”

“I remembered where I had seen the necklace before,” he finally announced after several beats of silence spent lost in the very eyes that shocked him into consciousness that morning, “and who it belonged to. I apologize for just barging in so early on a Saturday, I was just overly excited.”  
  
“You did?” Hermione gasped and a smile bright enough to light up the darkest of nights spread across her face. “Oh, Draco! That’s amazing! Who?”  
  
“Viola Nott,” he revealed, his tone suddenly sombre and serious. “Theo’s mother.”  
  
“Didn’t she disappear without a trace shortly before he started Hogwarts?” She asked gently and Draco could only nod the affirmative in response. “And you’re thinking we might solve the mystery surrounding her disappearance once you finish removing the enchantments on her necklace?”  
  
“That’s my theory. Theo’s always wondered and had all but given up hope for closure. If I can answer any of his questions, or offer him the slightest bit of comfort…” his words trailed off with a deep sigh and he dropped his eyes to the floor. Hermione felt her heart clench in sympathy and stepped forward without much thought, taking his larger hand in her own and giving it a gentle squeeze.  
  
“Go on in,” she urged. “I’ll bring you a cup of strong tea. Two lumps of sugar and a splash of milk, right?”  
  
Having been struck speechless at her touch, Draco nodded woodenly before he rasped out a choked, “Yes. Thank you.”  
  
“Nonsense.” Hermione waved off his thanks. “You really are _something else,_ Draco Malfoy. I owe you much more than a cuppa. I’ll bring it to you.”

x~X~x

It ended up taking him four gruelling and exhausting hours, not too mention countless cups of tea, but he was _almost_ finished. Hermione couldn’t help but stare as he worked. Beads of perspiration had formed just below his hairline and he had a deep furrow etched between his brows; he made a perfect portrait of total concentration. Occasionally, when he needed to perform a bit of difficult and complex wandwork, he would stick out the barest hint of his tongue and narrow his eyes. Each time it occurred, a wave of desire and longing would wash over her like the rogue surf itself. Its intensity frightened Hermione; it was unexpected, but not unwelcome.

With a final sharp flick of his wand, the last vestiges of magic were released in a blinding flash of light that left them both gasping and covering their eyes. When it was safe to look once more, the pair uncovered their slightly watering eyes and found they were no longer alone in Hermione’s home office. Standing in front of the necklace was the ghostly spectre of a woman.  
  
“Viola Nott?” Hermione whispered when she was capable of speech once more.  
  
“Draco Malfoy?” The spectre demanded, ignoring Hermione’s query entirely. “Surely it can’t be? You were only a boy when I last I saw you. Oh!” She gasped and her ghostly eyes filled with phantom tears. “That would mean Theodore is a grown man now, as well.”  
  
“Mrs Nott,” Draco murmured mournfully. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Yes,” Hermione agreed. “I can’t even begin to fathom what you’re going through at the moment, but I have to ask — what is the last thing you remember, Mrs Nott?” 

_“_ Rumours,” Viola responded slowly, looking at Hermione for the first time. “Rumours of the Dark Lord’s inevitable return were at a fever pitch, and even though my husband had promised me when Vol… _he_ disappeared long ago that nothing could drag him back into the Dark Lord’s command — that promise had been the catalyst for Theo’s very existence — I could no longer deny that he was falling back into the fold. I approached him in his study to confront him, threatened to leave and take Theo with me if he didn’t follow through on the vow he had made to his family and—” her inhale was ragged and she choked on a broken sob “—my husband drew his wand against me and took my life, but not before he bound my soul to the necklace he’d given me upon our engagement. He knew I couldn’t linger on the earthly plane and reveal his dastardly deed to my son and the wizarding world at large that way.”  
  
“Poor Theo,” Hermione breathed, her own eyes welling with tears. 

“Theo,” Viola Nott moaned miserably. “I answered your question, I’m going to find my son now.”  
  
Hermione and Draco could only watch in mute disbelief as the spectre-like figure disappeared before their very eyes.

x~X~x

“I’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around all of this,” Hermione declared as she took her seat across from Draco at the table in her kitchen — holding out a steaming cup of tea to her co-conspirator. 

“I’ll try to check in on Theo after I leave, but I have a feeling his Floo will be shut off for a while. I’ll send an owl, as well. I can’t help but worry what this all means for him.” His voice was a low, serious murmur and his eyes unfocused. 

“How are you handling all of this, Draco? You grew up with Nott, I can’t imagine the shock.” 

And she couldn’t. Her heart ached with sympathy, and try as she might, Hermione came up with no words of wisdom, or viable suggestions on how to navigate the minefield they found themselves trapped in. 

“It _has_ been one thing after another today,” the pale wizard muttered darkly and Hermione’s heart jolted nervously within her chest.  
  
“What do you mean?” She asked carefully, taking a delicate sip of her tea, hissing when the liquid scalded the tip of her tongue. Draco met her inquisitive, slightly nervous gaze head-on and she felt her stomach drop.  
  
“Did I ever tell you about the dreams I’ve been having, Hermione?” He eventually questioned with a cocked brow. 

Hermione opened her mouth to respond before closing it and pursing her lips, forcibly swallowing around the sudden lump in her throat. Her mind flashed to the way he behaved in the hall just outside her bedroom, and his reaction when he glanced into the room. She knew she’d been playing with fire and that, at any given moment he could figure everything out and confront her, but she had hoped they would have more time together before that happened.

“No,” the witch finally whispered. “You haven’t.”

  
  
Draco hummed thoughtfully, searching her face. Hermione sat her tea down and folded her hands on top of the table, in an effort to hide their sudden trembling.

“Well, they were rather personal,” his voice was flat and his eyes bore into hers with silent accusation. 

“Of course,” Hermione returned weakly. Suddenly all her careful reasoning and planning seemed terribly unfair — bordering on unkind. 

“How long have you known, Hermione?” Draco sighed, giving up on pretences. 

“Draco.” 

“A while then,” he supplied with a mirthless chuckle. “Were you ever planning on telling me? Or were you waiting for me to figure out and make all the decisions on my own?”  
  
With her stomach churning from both nerves and guilt, Hermione stood on shaky legs and carried her tea to the sink, pouring the beverage out without fanfare. Finally, with a deep sigh, the witch turned and winced at the pained expression twisting Draco’s otherwise handsome features.  
  
“I wanted to,” she admitted. “But I knew you had expectations to uphold. Hell, your parents likely had a perfect _pureblooded_ princess in mind already. Why open yourself up to that kind of rejection and hurt if you can avoid it altogether?”  
  
“But you didn’t avoid it, or me for that matter,” the wizard argued hotly. “You brought me in on this case! You had to know it would only strengthen the ties that bind us.”  
  
“I needed to know!” She burst out, her emotions getting the better of her. “I hadn’t really seen you in so long, I had no idea if you had changed or if your beliefs on blood purity were different. I thought if I could just spend a little time with you — if I could get to know who you were now, instead of the miserable boy I remembered — maybe the dreams would stop haunting me every moment.” 

Draco’s eyes narrowed and she watched helplessly as his jaw clenched and unclenched several times before he spoke, his tone cold as ice, “You were never being tested, were you?”  
  
Her feet carried her towards him without conscious thought on Hermione’s behalf, but he raised a pale hand and commanded, “Stop.”

“Please, Draco,” Hermione whispered while tears blurred her vision. “I didn’t know how else… please, try to understand.”  
  
“I need some time to think about all of this,” he murmured, pushing away from the small table he’d come to adore, and actively avoided her beseeching gaze. “I can’t wrap my mind around everything that’s happened today.” 

Without another look in Hermione’s direction, the tall blond left the kitchen and moments later, the witch heard the Floo roar to life before she sank to the tiled floor beneath her with a sob. 

She had well and truly mucked everything up this time. And worse, she was uncertain if it could be fixed. 

x~X~x

It had been two weeks. 

Fourteen godsforsaken days.

He'd tried reaching out to Theo. However, he met nothing but dead ends. Nero, his owl, had returned with his letter unopened, and the Floo had been shut since the afternoon Mrs Nott disappeared from Granger's flat. As concerned as he was for his friend, his own mind was a jumbled mess and he knew he would be of little help, even if he could reach him. 

Draco hadn't seen or spoken to Hermione since leaving her flat, but that didn't mean she was ever far from his thoughts. Every night, he was haunted by her presence in his dreams. No longer was his dream girl dancing her way through life or eagerly devouring page after page of countless texts and books. No, now every dream centered around a lone figure huddled in a window seat, staring blankly out at the world below. The dreams were accompanied by a profound melancholy that often led to Draco waking in tears, and the moment he realized they weren't his own, but that of Hermione's, was the morning he felt his heart splinter inside his chest. 

Still, he was a Malfoy and he had his pride. Though there were times he wondered if he'd judged too harshly, if he'd allowed his temper and sense of hurt get the best of him. Had he turned his back too quickly? Should he have stayed and demanded they talk about what all this meant for the two of them? She did have a genuine reason for concern. Hell, his father had immediately suggested setting him up with Astoria Greengrass of all people - the moment he realized that perhaps Draco and Hermione were getting too close. 

  
Quite honestly, he couldn't imagine a life with Astoria. She'd always been a spoiled and pampered girl, though he himself couldn't judge her for that as his parents had done the same for him, she took it to extremes. Prone to tantrums and histrionics if she didn't get her way, most of their house simply avoided the chit - even her own sister. She was a beautiful young woman, Draco couldn't deny that, but she was lacking the intelligence needed to hold a light-hearted debate or playful exchange of banter. She didn't have the fire he craved, and instead resembled that of all the pureblooded women he knew, meek and quiet; eager to please and utterly boring. 

It wasn't long before he realized he desperately missed the way Granger challenged him, while remaining delightful and quite funny, much to his surprise. The swot he'd always known her to be was still there, but there was a confidence and grace about her now - one that comes with age and maturity that made her all the more attractive. Every morning, when he'd take a seat at his kitchen island with his tea and breakfast, he would feel a sharp pang of longing for their time together in the mornings, chatting about everything and nothing over a home-cooked meal that seemed to warm him from the inside out. 

One morning, as he ate toast with jam and disinterestedly picked up the Daily Prophet, he was surprised to see his picture beside Hermione's and a detailed report of their investigation on the front page. Theodore Nott, Senior - who had been up for early release on good behaviour would be spending the rest of his life rotting away in Azkaban - a fate Draco believed he'd earned with all his heart and soul - for the murder of his wife. But what left him reeling and sent his pulse soaring, even as his heart lodged itself in his throat, was the fact that Granger had given all the credit to him. There in black and white, for all of the wizarding world to see, was Hermione Granger singing his praises: how dedicated he had been to helping her solve this cold case, how even when he encountered an obstacle that would leave other wizards scrambling for answers, he never lost his cool - nor lost sight of the bigger picture. 

There were so few times in his life that he'd been truly touched by another's actions, however, this - coming from a woman and witch that had earned the title of Brightest Witch of her Age - left him feeling full of gratitude and some other foreign emotion he couldn't quite label - as well as a profound sense of hollowness. He refused to dwell on the latter, as he had grown tired of the sting of betrayal that burnt through him any time his thoughts lingered too long on their, admittedly, fucked up situation. Instead, he busied himself with tedious tasks to keep his mind occupied and dreaded the end of the day, when his eyes became too heavy to remain open any longer and his body would ultimately succumb to the need for sleep. 

Draco began to loathe falling into his dreams, knowing what would greet him. Oh, how he missed the fierce woman he had begun to know. He missed the wonder he'd feel as she'd twirl or gyrate around a dance studio; the sense of contentment he'd share as she read. There were times, not many — but enough to hurt, that he could picture them both curled around one another, books in hand, soft smiles and touches as they shared mundane moments together that were anything but. 

_He missed her._

Though he would rather die than admit it.

The loud swooshing sound of the Floo shocked him out of his stupor and his stomach sank.

  
  
“Draco?” His father’s husky, low timbre echoed throughout the flat and he had to bite his tongue to keep from audibly groaning. His father was the _last_ person Draco wanted to see presently. 

“Coming,” he groused while he pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms. He made his way to the front room and flopped into one of his overstuffed chairs. “What brings you here, Father?”  
  
Lucius scrunched his nose in obvious distaste at his only son and heir’s appearance, before gracefully taking a seat across from him. “You’ve been sequestered in this flat for weeks, my son. Your mother is worried sick. I promised her I’d drop in to check and make sure you were still among the living. I think it might be safe to say, you’re half in, half out. Since when do you lie in bed all day?”  
  
“Since finding out my soulmate lied to me?” Draco shrugged. 

Expelling a lofty sigh, Lucius shook his head at his son. Though an adult by all standards, it seemed his boy was still very much a child when it came to matters of the heart. 

“You’re aware of my feelings on the matter,” he muttered. “But, Draco, you’ve been given a gift that most people would kill for. And instead of taking it, grabbing it and holding on with both hands for dear life, you’ve tossed it aside and all but ignored it. For what? Your witch,” and Draco swallowed reflexively at the words. “She had every reason to believe you’d be disgusted, or angry at her, the Fates, the bloody world for this! I don’t blame her. Not one bit.”  
  
“Are you fucking joking?” The Malfoy heir blustered, stunned by his father’s tirade.  
  
“Absolutely not, I don’t joke,” Lucius sneered. “You look like shit, son. I can only imagine you feel worse. And it’s not going to get any better. You are mourning the loss of her, and missing the other half of your very soul. For what? Pride?”

“You were against this from the moment I told you, and now you’re what? Encouraging me to go after her?” A baffled Draco ran a hand through his thick mop of hair, “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I assumed you’d be on my side. Proud of me, even.”  
  
“Yes, well,” Lucius tutted. “You do know what they say about assuming.”  
  
Draco stared sullenly into the flickering flames in the grate and sighed, “I was a right arse, Father. She’s spent two weeks being absolutely miserable and I haven’t even reached out to her. She likely will want nothing to do with me now.”  
  
Lucius rolled his eyes dramatically as he stood, rapping his blunt nails against his cane. “You’re assuming again. And you’ll never know unless you do something about it.” Moving towards the Floo, his father glanced over his shoulder and offered a small smile to his only son. “Go to her. You’ll regret it the rest of your life if you don’t.”  
  
And he was gone in a flash of green flames.

x~X~x

He’d stared into the flames for a long while. His mind was racing, as was his heart, and as loathe as Draco was to admit it, he knew his father was right. It didn’t make doing what needed to be done any easier. 

Hours passed. The sun sank lower in the sky, casting everything in its dying light a dusky, purplish hue. Could he really spend another night tossing and turning, haunted by the tears of a girl he might already love? 

The answer? A resounding no.

But he _was_ frightened. He didn’t know what kind of reception he’d receive. He didn’t know if Hermione would even want anything to do with him after the fit he’d thrown. After the way he’d hurt her. 

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? He’d hurt her. _Again._

Yes, she’d kept the truth from him. Yes, he’d had every right to be hurt and upset, but he’d had _no right_ to cause her so much pain and bear witness to the aftermath on a nightly basis. With a deep breath, Draco stood on shaking legs and crept slowly towards the fireplace. Even if she hexed him and promptly sent him packing, she deserved the closure at the very least. 

They both did. 

And so, he gathered what little courage he had, grabbed a bit of green powder and called out Hermione’s address before disappearing in a swirl of emerald flames.

x~X~x

Stumbling from her fireplace, Draco found himself short of breath while his heart beat a panicked and furious rhythm against his sternum. Her flat was dark and musty-smelling, so unlike the warm and comforting space he remembered. A pang of guilt stabbed his heart, stealing his breath momentarily. What was worse, however, was that he heard no response to his intrusion.  
  
No soft foot-falls sneaking down the hall. No verbal request to identify himself. Nothing at all.  
  
Briefly, he wondered if she’d gone somewhere. But then he spotted the ghastly beaded bag she took everywhere discarded haphazardly on the sofa and knew the witch was home. Feeling more and more like a stalker with each breath, Draco swallowed and made his way down the hall leading to her bedroom. He raised a slightly trembling fist to knock on the door, unwilling to enter a lady’s bedroom without her consent, when the door swung open. 

Hermione stood before him, her face drawn and pale, an oversized shirt with some odd-looking frog and a rainbow emblazoned on the front falling past her knees, but he’d never seen a more beautiful sight.  
  
“Draco,” she breathed, her voice wobbly and hoarse from disuse. “Gods, Draco, I am so sorry. I should have told you from the very start. As soon as your birthday passed. I thought about it, I truly did, I swear! But I was frightened and thought I knew what you would think, and how you would react, and it was so ghastly of me.” Silent tears began to fall from her thick, dark lashes and each was a punch in the gut. 

Without thinking, he cupped her face and brushed away the steadily falling teardrops from her porcelain skin.  
  
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, leaning slightly into his touch and the action warmed the organ beating so furiously in his chest.  
  
“Shh,” Draco whispered.  
  
Hermione’s face fell and she nodded, only to be taken by surprise when he pulled her against his chest and held her tightly.  
  
“I’ve seen more than enough of your tears,” he began in a quiet tone. “Enough for a lifetime. No more of that.” 

And without another word, he claimed her bee-stung lips with his own, and the world seemed to explode into a million different colours behind their closed eyes. Hermione’s arms slid around his neck, and her hands slid into his hair pulling a soft moan from him. Draco ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, slowly and with an aching sort of gentleness, begging for entrance — which his witch readily granted. He couldn’t put a name to what her kiss tasted of, but if he had to, it was ambrosial. They kissed languishly for what seemed like an age, before slowly parting with an indiscriminate amount of soft pecks. 

  
Resting his forehead against hers, he swallowed thickly and revelled in how perfectly they seemed to fit together. 

“I missed you,” she finally whispered after catching her breath. 

  
“I know,” he murmured, opening his eyes and gazing deeply into her own. “I missed you, too.”  
  
And for the first time in weeks, a small smile curved Hermione’s lips — a glorious sight to behold, and with a bit of cheek in her tone, she responded, “I know.”


End file.
